Page 153 of The Stranger in Room Six
In January I receive a postcard from Mabel. It shows sunny blue skies and a matching sea. She writes in that spidery writing that the elderly appear to have perfected:
I think of you a lot, Belinda. I am coming to terms with your betrayal, and I forgive you now. I hope you can find peace as I have. I don’t think I’m coming back. At this time of my life, my body is only made for a one-way journey. Besides, Britain is too cold for my bones. Harry is coming out to visit shortly. I feel guilty that he lost his seat but he says this was not necessarily due to the scandal and that it was time for him to leave politics anyway. He’s going to dedicate his time to voluntary causes now.
I put the postcard on the mirror in the room I now share with Imran, next to a photograph of my grandson.
Gerry and I often go out for lunch together. He doesn’t seem fazed about what he calls ‘the family skeleton’. ‘I mean it’s not cool that you killed my granddad but Mum says you didn’t mean to.’ His eyes seem to gleam with curiosity. ‘What was it like in prison?’
‘Awful,’ I say. ‘Make sure you never do anything illegal. It’s not worth it.’
He laughs as if I am joking.
‘I mean it,’ I say firmly.
Then I receive a text from Stephen.
It’s wonderful to have found my sisters. They’re my only link to Dad.
I don’t question my girls about it. I reckon that if they want to tell me, they will. But they don’t. Maybe it’s easier that way.
Despite her ‘ought to try again’ words on Christmas Eve, I never hear from Gillian directly. Perhaps I just have to accept that some crimes are too big to forgive.
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My own story would not be complete unless I told you how Mabel’s ended. After her decision to remain in Italy permanently, she and I wrote several letters to each other. My first was a long apology, explaining again how I hadn’t known what to do: the only way to keep my girls safe was to betray her. Once the air had cleared, we talked about family. In my case, Gerry, my girls and, of course, Imran; in hers, her son and her great-granddaughter.
But Mabel’s last, in that shaky, spidery writing, was different. She knew she was going to die, yet her writing was decidedly lucid:
If I do not see you again, dear Belinda, I want you to know how grateful I am to you for listening. I won’t pretend that I wasn’t hurt by you. But that is all over now. Thank you for being so kind and sympathetic, knowing exactly when to ask a question and when to pause. You helped me heal. Most importantly, you gave me the great privilege of letting me into your own life and secrets.
My eyes blur with tears. I should be thankingher.I hear Mabel’s voice in the letter. It makes me feel as if she is still here, sitting right next to me. I may have helped her, but Mabel’s story taught me to forgive.
I like to think we both benefited from each other’s company, and dare I say it, love. The special kind of love that can only exist between two kindred spirits. For that’s what Mabel and I were. Two women who had done wrong in the eyes of the law. But who lived and learned to tell their tales.
Epilogue
Mabel
I have had a lot of time to think here in Italy.
It is wonderful – oh, so wonderful – to have my enormous extended family (as they call it nowadays) around me, but I wish Belinda was here. There is one thing I did not tell her and it’s rubbing on my conscience. Indeed, it scorches my skin.
Not long after we met at Sunnyside, Belinda said that it’s important for stories like ours to be told.
She was right, but it wasn’t the time to tell all of mine then and I’m not sure it is now. But if I don’t, it might become too late.
So I think back further, as if rummaging through an office index of cards, to the morning I’d found the photograph of Clarissa on Mosley’s march.
I went straight up to her bedroom and when she didn’t answer, walked in. Her bed was still rumpled but no one was there. Her bathroom was empty. Perhaps she was walking the dogs. But no. They were sleeping quietly in their baskets. I tiptoed past, shutting the back door gently behind me so as not to wake Cook, and went out into the grounds. Where could she be? Eventually, I found her by the lavender bank.
She seemed distressed, walking around still in her nightdress and talking to herself. I caught names. My mother’s name. The Colonel’s. Even my own.
When she saw me, she started like a spooked horse. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘I am looking for you,’ I replied.
‘No. I mean what are you doing here?’
‘I live here.’
